


Yours Truly

by Eienvine



Series: Yours [1]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Dear Enola,Just a quick note to let you know my mother and I have arrived safely home to Basilwether House. I wish you were with us, but I understand that you cannot leave in the middle of a case.Give my love to Sherlock, Edith, and Mrs. Hudson, whose sponge cakes I shall miss every moment I am away from London.Yours in friendship,Tewky
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Yours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018234
Comments: 69
Kudos: 379





	Yours Truly

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little epistolary fluff for you on this fine day.
> 
> I’m not aware of them giving a location for Basilwether House (or the Holmes home; theoretically they’re reasonably near each other, right?), so I’ve chosen to place it in Bedfordshire, some thirty or forty miles north of London. I’m basing this on the fact that after only traveling by train for what seems to be ten or fifteen minutes, Enola and Tewky still apparently managed to walk/hitch a wagon ride to London with only one overnight stay. Or at least they only showed us one overnight stay. If they did tell us where Basilwether House is and I missed it, let me know!
> 
> Also, I looked but couldn’t find any reliable information on how fast it would have taken to send a letter from London to the countryside and vice versa. The Victorians had a wonderfully efficient mail system, with a fleet of special train cars and multiple deliveries per day; plus it’s not a large island, and trains could traverse it relatively quickly. But even so, I imagine it would have taken a while to send a letter: you have to get it to the post office, where it must wait to be sorted and then wait for the next train going the right direction, and then it’s carted up to its destination, where it has to wait to be sorted again, and then wait for the next delivery, and then taken to its final destination, which, in the countryside, could be some distance away.
> 
> So I have arbitrarily chosen two days as the time required to send a letter between Baker Street and Basilwether House. So, in this story, if the gap between two letters is two days, that indicates a prompt response; if it’s longer, assume the letter writer didn’t answer right away.

. . . . . .

 _September 6, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dear Enola,

Just a quick note to let you know my mother and I have arrived safely home to Basilwether House. I wish you were with us, but I understand that you cannot leave in the middle of a case. Anyway it seems you were correct to turn down our invitation; the storm last month did rather more damage than I’d realized, and I imagine I will spend much of my time here trying to set everything to rights. You would have been a very bored houseguest if you had come.

It is wonderful to be home, however, even with the storm damage! I have come to love London, but when I am there, I crave the serenity and the gardens of Basilwether House. (Of course, when I am at Basilwether House, I eventually start to crave the excitement of London. How fortunate that I can split my time between both.)

The gardens are beautiful, even this late in summer. I hope that next year I shall have more breaks from my Parliamentary duties and can return home more often in the spring and summer; I should like to be more involved in the planning and planting of the gardens. How unfortunate that Parliament should be in session in the spring and summer, when everything interesting is happening out of doors, and out of session in the fall, when there is less interesting gardening to be done! I should propose a bill to change the schedule.

Give my love to Sherlock, Edith, and Mrs. Hudson, whose sponge cakes I shall miss every moment I am away from London.

Yours in friendship,

William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether

. . . . . .

 _September 10, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Tewky,

What a silly nincompoop you are sometimes. You needn’t sign your letters with your title; I know precisely who you are. And even if I couldn’t tell from your signature, I would know it from your letters, for you are surely the only gentleman in the kingdom who would dedicate an entire paragraph to gardening.

I am sorry to hear about the storm damage to the house; it is a lovely place, and I should be sorry to have anything happen to it. I shall never forget the first time I laid eyes on it: Mrs. May Beatrice Posy, recently widowed, come to solve the mystery of the missing marquess.

(You know, when I think about how she and I met, I think it is a miracle that your mother tolerates me at all.)

You say you are sorry not to have more time to spend on your garden, but I am sorry to lose you to the countryside as much as I do. You are, as it turns out, an excellent detective’s assistant. If being a marquess doesn’t work out for you, you might have a future in investigating. Come to me if you ever find yourself in need of employment.

I think I am very close to solving the case of the Spring Street fire, but sometimes concluding these cases takes longer than I expect, so we shall see. By the way, Sherlock says hello, and Mrs. Hudson says to tell you there will be sponge cake waiting for you whenever you are back in London.

Enola

P.S. See? You know who I am without my adding any explanation to my name.

. . . . . .

 _September 12, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dear Enola,

I was surprised to receive such a prompt reply from you; you have always been a fascinating but unreliable correspondent. (I worried about offending you with that statement, and then I realized you were more likely to congratulate yourself than feel ashamed about such an assessment.) I was delighted, though, with your letter. Our little corner of Bedfordshire is a paradise, but it is a quiet one, and a letter from a friend is always welcome to brighten up my day.

It shan’t be quiet for long, however; our old friends the Ashtons have just returned to the neighborhood after being in London, and we are to dine with them tomorrow. Phillip Ashton and I played together as boys, and later were at Eton together. His younger sister Catherine has just completed her time at finishing school; I have not seen her since she was perhaps twelve years old. My mother says that she apparently enjoyed finishing school a great deal, so I shall refrain from telling the young lady that I once helped you escape from one in a trunk. Or that we stole the headmistress’s motorcar.

Now that I reread this letter, I worry I have made too much fuss about your quick response, and now you will feel irritated and refuse to write to me for months. So please ignore everything I have said on the subject, as I quite depend on your letters for my entertainment and would hate to have them stop coming. Tell me all about your latest cases, even if you think they are not interesting. I assure you, they will be to me.

Your friend,

His Lordship, the Most Honorable Marquess of Basilwether and Viscount Tewkesbury

P.S. You are quite right that it was silly to use my title; it’s just that I’d only recently gotten out of my Parliamentary duties, and it came rather naturally. I will attempt to be less pompous in the future.

. . . . . .

 _September 18, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

To the Most Honorable Marquess of Braggartshire,

If I ever call you the most honorable anything with any kind of seriousness, I want you to send me to a quiet cottage somewhere far from civilization, for surely it means I have lost my wits and can do no one any good as a detective.

How was your dinner with the Ashtons? Did you find your friend’s sister to be very much finished? I have always wondered about the term “finishing school.” If it finishes a young lady, what starts her? And does that mean that I, having run away from finishing school, am only half complete? Mycroft has never forgiven me for leaving, by the way, but then Mycroft is unhappy with most things I do, so I usually ignore him. You are fortunate you are titled; he doesn’t dare hold a grudge against you for helping me, for he likes to stay on the good side of as many members of Parliament as possible, in case he should need your support for something. If he ever does come to you for support, by the way, please ignore him. That’s what I do, anyway. 

I have solved the case of the Spring Street fire. It was the eldest son, who fell asleep reading in the library and his candle tipped over. I am quite pleased that it was not one of the servants after all, as Mr. Throckmorton was so certain it was. I admit to some frustration with the man right now; when the servants all swore they were nowhere near where the fire started, he did not believe them, but when his sons said the same, he did not question it. I suppose one must trust one's family, though, or one's home life would be rather miserable. I am simply glad none of the servants shall be turned out for a fire they did not start. 

Enola

. . . . . .

 _September 23, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

To Enola, who I don’t believe shall ever lose her wits,

Congratulations on successfully closing your case! Now you can add accidental fires to the list of subjects about which you are an expert. Like you, I am pleased that none of the servants of the family shall lose their place over this. I suppose Mr. Throckmorton cannot fire his son.

Our dinner with the Ashtons was quite pleasant, thank you for asking. Phillip Ashton and I spent much of the meal reminiscing about youthful scrapes we've gotten into, and I've always been very fond of Mr. and Mrs. Ashton. Miss Catherine Ashton is indeed quite finished, or at least she is indistinguishable from most of the other Society ladies of my acquaintance, and as I believe that to be the ultimate purpose of finishing school, I suppose her time at the institution was successful. I will say that she has learned to play the piano very beautifully, and as I am immensely fond of the piano, I must consider that a point in finishing school’s favor.

I am writing you this letter from my old treehouse. The weather will soon turn chilly here, and I decided that I should take advantage of what warmth we still have and spend more time outside. I have brought a blanket and pillows and am sprawled out on the floor, listening to the leaves rustle in the breeze and the birds calling out to each other. I think this might be my favorite spot on the estate. I enjoy spending time with old friends and neighbors, but there is a part of me that wishes that I could spend all my time at Basilwether House out in the gardens and up in the trees.

Regards,

Tewky, who hasn’t that many wits to begin with

. . . . . .

 _September 25, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Sherlock -- 

Am called suddenly to Devon for a case; if it seems I will be here for more than a few days, I will send a telegram. Tell Mrs. Hudson I am sorry I cannot take tea with her for a while.

While we are on the subject of Mrs. Hudson, I overheard you two speaking yesterday, and I resent the implication that there is anything notable in my correspondence with Lord Basilwether. He is a friend—a concept you might do well to look into—and we correspond when we are not in the same city. There is nothing worth the two of you gossipping and giggling about in all that.

Enola

. . . . . .

 _September 26, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

My dear sister Enola,

I suppose you shall not see this until you return from Devon, but as you were very good about letting me know where you had vanished to, I thought I should do the same. I, too, have been called away for a case; I shall be at Webber Hall in Sussex for at least a week, I imagine. I hope your case in Devon goes well.

You may resent my implications, but I resent your assertion that I giggle. As for gossipping, I would ask: is it gossip to discuss a thing that is true? You insist that your correspondence with Basilwether is not out of the ordinary. I argue that you are fortunate that you do not live with Mycroft, for if he saw how often you and the marquess write to each other, he would have already found a way to force you to marry.

Your brother who has never giggled in his life,

Sherlock

. . . . . .

 _September 28, 1889_ _  
_ _The White Hart Inn, Bideford, Devon_

To Tewky, who has more wits than he realizes,

I write to you from Devon, where I have just solved a kidnapping. It was the child’s uncle, of all the dreadful things to discover; he resented getting what he saw as less than his fair share in his father’s will, and meant to punish his older brother and get the money he thought he was owed by kidnapping his own niece. The more I see of the world, the more I see wisdom in the New Testament saying that money is the root of all evil. I have cleverly avoided that problem, however, by never having very much of it.

Tomorrow I will journey back to London. (Can you imagine that when our grandparents were young, there were no trains, and they had to travel everywhere by carriage? The journey from Devon to London would have taken days. It sounds miserable to me.) So do not bother writing to me at this address.

I admit to being dreadfully jealous when I read your account of lying in your treehouse; it seemed very peaceful, and I could just imagine the sound of the wind in the leaves. I quite agree with you that the grounds are best part of Basilwether House, and that your treehouse is the best part of the grounds. Do you remember two summers ago when I was staying at Basilwether House and Mycroft came unexpectedly to visit me, and you and I hid in the treehouse until he’d gone? Not terribly mature of either of us, but I shall forever remember what a delightful day that was: reading together and listening to the birdsong and enjoying Cook’s biscuits. (I have long suspected that your mother knew exactly where we were but kept that to herself, for my sake. Have I mentioned how much I like your mother?)

I was quite ready to proclaim that I lack absolutely nothing, despite running away from finishing school, but your report has deflated my defiance. I absolutely cannot play the piano, and indeed have no musical abilities to speak of. So I suppose that is one area in which I am not finished. Should I teach myself to play, just to prove that finishing school is unnecessary?

From the unfinished Enola

. . . . . .

 _October 2, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

To Enola, who is perfect as she is,

Learn the piano if you want to learn the piano. Otherwise, do not bother. Perhaps this is one area where you are lacking, but how many other young ladies can boast of skills in decoding ciphers? Or jiu-jitsu? Or fencing? Or crime-solving? I see no deficiency in the way you have elected to spend your time and energy. Although I suppose that if you learned the piano, you and Sherlock could play together. That could be lovely—although from what you have said, he often plays when he is trying to work through something in his mind, and in that case, he might not want accompaniment.

I do remember that day we spent in the treehouse; it is one of my happiest memories. And yes, my mother has since confessed to me that she knew exactly where we were. She is not entirely fond of Mycroft, and she _is_ entirely fond of you, so she was happy to help you hide from him. By the way, expect to hear from her soon; she is leaving today to visit a friend in London, and has every intention of seeing you while she is there.

That is shocking, what you wrote about the kidnapping. Money can indeed induce people to do dreadful things. I suppose in a way I am fortunate to be an only child, if only because I know there will be no squabbling over my inheritance (other than murder attempts by my grandmother). I confess I do wish I had a sibling, though. Basilwether House is lovely, and my mother and uncle are all that is loving and good, but I get lonely here at times.

Fortunately, the Ashtons have been keeping me from boredom and loneliness. Phillip Ashton and I have ridden together a number of mornings since his arrival, and someone is always putting together an outing of some sort. Today we are to take a picnic to a beautiful hill nearby. I don’t believe I’ve ever taken you to Oak Hill, have I? It is Miss Ashton’s favorite spot, apparently, and she was quite keen to make a trip out there. She intends to bring art supplies and force us all to spend some expressing our creativity; apparently drawing and painting is another skill they taught her at finishing school. I’ve seen her work; it’s quite good. I, on the other hand, shall undoubtedly embarrass myself.

With sincere regards,

Tewky, who cannot play the piano either

. . . . . .

 _October 3, 1889_ _  
_ _Portman Square, London_

My dearest Enola,

I am in London for a few days, and would love to see you while I am here. I know you are dreadfully busy, but would any afternoon in the next few days suit?

Caroline

. . . . . .

 _October 3, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Dear Caroline,

I know how many times you have asked me to call you Caroline, but it still feels so strange not to write “Lady Tewkesbury.” But I did promise I would try. So, Caroline, I find myself free this very afternoon, and would be pleased to call on you around tea time.

Enola

. . . . . .

 _October 3, 1889_ _  
_ _Portman Square, London_

My dearest William,

I arrived safely at the London townhouse yesterday evening, and this afternoon had the pleasure of having tea with Enola. She is, as she always has been, the most delightful young lady of my acquaintance. Of course, when I met her, she lied about her name, marital status, and position as an assistant to Sherlock Holmes, but once I learned that it was all in service of attempting to save your life, I found myself quite willing to forgive her.

She regaled me with tales of her most recent cases; she is building up quite a name for herself, it seems. My old friend Mrs. Hartford—Enola found her missing kitchen maid, you recall—absolutely falls over herself to praise Enola every time I speak to her. “Brilliant, of course, but other inspectors are brilliant,” she always says. “What sets her apart as an investigator is her compassion.” And I quite agree.

I picture you reading this and wondering why I have dedicated two entire paragraphs to singing Enola’s praises, so I will get to the point. (I am about to be very blunt, dear, so brace yourself.) When are you going to marry Enola? Do not feign shock, dearest. I know you are absolutely smitten with her, and I know that she is the reason you resist every effort by your uncle to introduce you to eligible young ladies. She is also the reason _I_ have never bothered introducing you to eligible young ladies, for I have always seen where your heart lies.

She would make an unconventional Marchioness of Basilwether, but she has backbone and intelligence, both of which, I think, will be necessary in your wife, if you intend to continue to be such a progressive voice in the House of Lords. More importantly, she makes you happy. And you deserve to be happy.

Please excuse my forwardness; all of these are things I have meant to say to you for such a long time, and after my tea with Enola today, I simply couldn’t keep them in any longer. I am to take tea with her again before I return to Bedfordshire; if you like, I could drop in a few hints about what an eligible young man you are.

All my love,

Mother

. . . . . .

 _October 5, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Mother,

Please do not drop any hints to Enola about my eligibility, I beg you. She already knows precisely who and what I am; your hints will do nothing to change the fact that she has no interest in becoming the Marchioness of Basilwether.

I am sorry if that came across as sharp; I know your letter was very kindly meant. I am very glad that you are so fond of Enola; she has mentioned to me on more than one occasion how fond she is of you, and given that her own mother is rarely in contact with her, I know she appreciates, as I do, that you have stepped in to fill a maternal role in her life. I appreciate that you have not pushed me into meeting eligible young ladies, and I am more grateful than I can say that you are in favor of me finding myself a wife who makes me happy, rather than one who will increase our fortune or social standing.

Now to the main point of your letter. I will not do you the discourtesy of lying and saying that I feel nothing for Enola. I do care for her, and have for some time. But I know her well enough to know that she has no interest in marrying and that she is happy dedicating her life to her work. If she ever shows any sign of changing her mind, I assure you that I will act, but I beg you not to pin all your hopes on that hypothetical future day. I have been watching Enola for five years and she has never shown any sign of relaxing her stance on marriage.

Your loving son,

William

. . . . . .

 _October 8, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Tewky,

I have seen your mother twice now during her time in London. She is still insisting I call her Caroline, stating that she considers us friends and that we are both adults and can therefore call each other by familiar names. I have no objections to that, on an intellectual level, but somehow I still struggle to adopt the name. During our second visit, she suggested I could call her “Mother Caroline,” if that felt more comfortable, but I think that she was joking.

Your latest letter made me feel very smug, for I am an excellent painter. We painted together once at Basilwether House, did we not? That is one of the skills Mother taught me; she always claimed it was because it taught one to observe details, but I think that in truth she just enjoyed having a creative outlet. I am not as good as her, but she always said I had an excellent eye and a great deal of talent. You see? I do not need a finishing school after all.

I am sorry to hear you feel lonely at Basilwether House at times. I would offer to come visit you, but I’m dreadfully busy just now, and anyway I prefer the place in springtime, when the gardens are beginning to bloom. So I am making this offer instead: next spring or summer, when you have a break from Parliament, name the day and I will come to Basilwether with you. We shall eat biscuits in the treehouse and you can show me what you and the gardeners have decided to plant in the garden, and then you needn’t be lonely.

Enola

. . . . . .

 _October 12, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dear Enola,

I don’t know why you’re so keen to prove to me that you don’t need finishing school; I never thought you did. I’m the one who helped you escape from Miss Harrison’s, remember?

I will take you up on your offer at the first possible moment. Everyone at Basilwether House misses you; Mrs. Jones says you’re the only person who appreciates her biscuits the way they ought to be appreciated, and the gardeners still talk about the time you solved the case of the missing pruning shears, and even my uncle says the house is quieter when you are not here. Of course, he might mean that as a reason for you to stay away, but I am choosing to interpret his statement as him missing you. And of course I miss you as well; life is less exciting without you around.

We did paint together once; I was very impressed with your flowers. I have included with this letter a little painting I did on our Oak Hill expedition, as a memento so you can remember me. It is not very good, so when you look at it, you can remember than I am not a very good artist. In case you cannot tell from my painting, it is _Campanula rotundifolia,_ or harebell. There was a patch blooming near our picnic blanket—a lucky thing, so late in the year. Ashton laughed at me when he saw what I had chosen to paint, saying that it was just like me to focus on flowers; he chose to paint the entire view from the hill, which turned out to be too ambitious for his skills. At least I know my artistic limitations. Miss Ashton chose to paint her brother. It turns out that she is extraordinarily skilled at portraiture: another finishing school achievement, I suppose. She has offered to paint me some time, which would delight my mother, who keeps saying that we need a portrait of me for the gallery. I find the notion of hanging up my portrait at Basilwether House overwhelming and embarrassing.

Speaking of the house, the repairs from the storm are coming along nicely; we completed the repairs on all the cottages roundabout last week, and should be done with the house itself in another few weeks. So we shall all be snug and warm this winter.

All my best,

Tewky

. . . . . .

_October 15, 1889_

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS  
HANDED IN AT THE _Baker Street_ OFFICE AT _9:47 am_ RECEIVED HERE AT _9:59 am_

TO _Lord Basilwether_

 _remember MacDonald case last July_ _  
_ _have finally solved it_ _  
_ _Enola_

. . . . . .

_October 15, 1889_

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS  
HANDED IN AT THE _Greenley_ OFFICE AT _4:21 pm_ RECEIVED HERE AT _4:30 pm_

TO _Miss Enola Holmes_

 _I do recall that case_ _  
_ _it was quite memorable_ _  
_ _many congratulations_ _  
_ _T_

. . . . . .

 _October 16, 1889_ _  
_ _Montford Place, London_

My dear Miss Holmes,

I felt compelled to thank you again for not giving up on my case, and for your tireless work to recover my stolen property. I suppose that to an outside observer, what was taken would not seem like much, but they were irreplaceable to me: family heirlooms brought from Scotland by my parents, and mementos from my dear departed Charles. I was quite bereft without them, and overjoyed to have them returned long after any other investigator would have written the case off as hopeless.

I wish I could do more to thank you, but you have seen how I live; I have little to offer in the way of monetary reward, more than what I have already paid you. What I do have to offer is wisdom, gained from sixty-three hard-fought years in this world. Perhaps you will have little interest in the ramblings of an old woman, but I feel compelled to write this anyway.

You seem an extraordinary young woman, Miss Holmes: clever and composed and quite brave. This cause you have undertaken—investigations and aiding the victims of crimes—is an important one. But I hope you will not become so caught up in your work that you forget that there is more to life than working.

I speak, of course, of your young man. Oh, I know you insisted to me that he is simply an associate who assists you with your cases, but I suspect that he means more to you than that. I don’t know if you realize, but I saw you two when you were undercover, pretending to be a courting couple in the market that day. That means I saw when you were nearly discovered by the man you were tracking, which means I saw your young man kiss you to throw your target off your scent. And most of all, I saw your face after he kissed you. I was married thirty-one years, Miss Holmes; I know that expression well. I know what it is to be carried off one’s feet, as it were, by a kiss from a man you love.

And then I saw you go about your business as though nothing had happened. I have thought of that scene often, Miss Holmes; and I have spent the last day thinking of our conversation yesterday, when I mentioned your young man, and you grew wistful.

I keep thinking of my own youthful romance with Charles. It took me ten years to admit to myself how much I loved him and agree to marry him, and now that he is gone, my biggest regret is that I did not let go of my stubborn pride sooner and confess to myself and to him how I felt. I could have had ten more years with him: ten more years with the most wonderful and loving man in the world. It is a regret I will take to my grave, but I hope, Miss Holmes, that you are wise enough to learn from my mistakes and not live with such regrets yourself. Do not blind yourself to how wonderful marriage can be to someone you love, and do not blind yourself to your feelings for that young man.

Perhaps you are appalled at my forwardness, and uninterested in my advice; if you toss this letter in the fire, I will never know. But I hope you will take a piece of unsolicited advice from a woman who has lived much longer than you: do not waste time. Seize happiness when it is available to you.

Gratefully,

Mrs. Margaret MacDonald

. . . . . .

 _October 21, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Mrs. MacDonald,

I thank you for your letter. It has given me a great deal to think about; indeed, I have thought of little else these last few days. And I assure you, I have not thrown it in the fire.

Kind regards,

Enola Holmes

. . . . . .

 _October 23, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Dear Tewky,

I loved your painting of the harebell. I found a little frame for it, and hung it in my room. I enjoy having a reason to remember you . . . and that you are not a very good painter. Though in your defense, I was absolutely certain it was some variety of blue flower, so do not be too hard on yourself about your painting skills. Perhaps when I visit Basilwether House next year, I can attempt to teach you what I know (though I will openly admit to being out of practice).

I miss you as well. I find myself in a lull between cases, and a week of blustery weather has largely kept me inside, so I have found myself restlessly pacing the parlor at 221B Baker Street. I wish you were here to keep me from running mad with boredom. You could read to me—you have a lovely voice for reading aloud, you know—or we could play chess. I have high hopes that with more practice, you could become a formidable opponent in chess. You’re already better than Mycroft, but then, that’s not precisely high praise, given that it’s Mycroft.

Write me and tell me something interesting, to break up this monotony.

Affectionately,

Enola

. . . . . .

 _October 25, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dear Enola,

Ah, so you have not forgotten me! I had wondered, after such a long gap between my last letter and yours. I feared you had gone back to your old ways of waiting a month to write me back. You know, you never did tell me: what occasioned your suddenly becoming such an excellent correspondent this autumn? Is it simply that you miss me more than usual? You have finally admitted to yourself that I am the most amiable man of your acquaintance? That would make sense; I am a very likable person.

I wish I had more of interest to write to you, but little of note has happened of late; I have spent much of the past week overseeing repairs to the house, reading correspondence about a bill that some colleagues of mine mean to propose when Parliament is next in session, and taking advantage of the relatively warm weather to ride with Ashton and enjoy the outdoors. Jones has suggested to me the building of a greenhouse, which I have always wanted to have at Basilwether House but never made the time for. We have spent any bit of time I can spare walking the grounds, discussing the best place to put one. Only imagine how that would increase the growing season for us! Did you know the house had an orangery when my grandfather was a boy? Unfortunately, Grandmother saw no use in growing “strange exotic fruits” and had it converted into a solarium after they married. You know, that story takes on a very different meaning, now that I know how violently she objected to anything that was not traditionally British. I think I’m going to have the solarium converted back into an orangery. We never use the solarium anyway.

You will be pleased to hear than my uncle requests to play chess against me quite often. He offers little challenge, but at least I am keeping up my skills a little. I hope that when I see you next, I can offer you a good, interesting match. By which I mean I hope I can keep you from beating me in four moves.

I never knew you liked my reading to you; you always seemed to tolerate it, more than enjoy it. Do you realize that in a single letter, you complimented my painting, my reading, and my chess playing? Enola Holmes, willingly saying kind things to the Marquess of Bothersomeshire; what has caused such a change?

Not that I am complaining. And I will happily read to you, play chess against you, take painting lessons from you, or all three, the next time we are together.

Affectionately,

Tewky

. . . . . .

 _October 30, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Dear Marquess of Bothersomeshire,

If I had known you were going to make such a fuss about it, I wouldn’t have said anything kind about you at all. Still, I am pleased to hear you are keeping up your chess skills. There are few people in this world who offer me a real challenge at the chessboard, and as I said, I believe that with some practice, you could become one of them.

I very much approve of both the greenhouse and the orangery. You’ve spoken to me before about building a greenhouse, as I recall; it is high time you got around to it. And I think that having orange trees at Basilwether House is a lovely idea! Just imagine having perfectly fresh oranges at any time! How long does it take for newly-planted orange trees to start bearing fruit?

I have just returned from solving a case. It was a sad one, to be honest: a case of vandalism of an apothecary’s shop. I soon discovered that the culprit was the apothecary’s apprentice, angry with him for years of alleged mistreatment and abuse. It will be up to the law to decide what happens next, but I have to admit, I hope they give the young man some clemency, if it is discovered that he was indeed mistreated by his employer. Having met the apothecary, I can say with confidence that he is the sort of man who inspires one to want to break things.

Regards,

Enola

. . . . . .

 _November 3, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dear Enola,

It is a dreadful thing that, in cases like the one you mentioned, there is so little recourse available to those who have been mistreated by their employers. Sometimes I think of the great injustices that still exist in this world—the structures in place that favor the rich and discriminate against the poor, that hurt the weak and protect their oppressors—and I feel exhausted. There is so much work to be done, and so few politicians willing to do it!

But let us leave that subject for now; I do not want to frighten you off with my complaining. Congratulations on successfully closing your case. It sounds as though you are doing very well for yourself at present. It seems a shame that only the people of London have access to your services; you should set up branch offices around the United Kingdom, so more people can reach you. I can offer you a very comfortable sitting room for your Bedfordshire headquarters, if you’d like. Or even a treehouse.

I have found a book in the library that informs me that orange trees can take fifteen years to bear fruit if they are grown from seed, but only three to four if mature trees are transferred from elsewhere. I shall have to see if anyone is willing to sell me any trees. If not, I suppose this will be a project I undertake for my children to enjoy.

And I am sorry for calling attention to you complimenting me. The next time you say something kind to me, I will pretend not to notice.

Peninently yours,

The Marquess of Apologies-for-being-bothersome-shire

. . . . . .

 _November 6, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Dearest Tewky,

You are not truly a bother; I apologize for saying so. And do not apologize for what you term “complaining.” I want you always to feel that you can tell me anything you’d like. You know that I quite rely on you as a listening ear and a source of advice, and I would be quite selfish if I wasn’t determined to be the same for you. You may say anything you like to me; I am always glad to hear it. Unless “anything you like” includes the phrases “Sherlock is a better detective than you” or “Mycroft is actually a very reasonable chap.”

I think it wonderful that you worry so much about the plight of those Society would deem beneath you; many men in your situation would not and do not bother. I am sorry that it weighs you down so; please tell me if there’s ever anything I can do to help. And on behalf of all those who Society considers less than worthy—all of us who are not wealthy white men, I mean—thank you.

So long to grow orange trees! I hope you can find someone to sell you some grown trees, for I am not keen to wait fifteen years to enjoy fruit from Basilwether House’s orangery.

The weather has grown warmer and I wanted stretch my legs, so today I took a long walk through Regent’s Park. (As usual, I drew a few curious looks, being a woman walking alone, so I employed my usual trick of walking very quickly and with a determined look on my face, as though I had somewhere very important I had to be, and people mostly stopped staring.) I did not go into the Zoo, but I did stand some distance away and look. Do you remember when we went to the Zoo this spring with your mother? I can’t believe she had never been before. She was so fascinated by the camels, do you remember?

I think your mother needs more adventure in her life. When she was in town last, we spoke of someday visiting the Continent together. You are welcome to join us, if you promise to carry our luggage.

Affectionately yours,

Enola

. . . . . .

 _November 8, 1889_ _  
_ _Gambrel Hall, Bedfordshire_

Basilwether,

Have to cancel our ride tomorrow, unfortunately. Catherine wants me to accompany her to Bedford to visit the dressmaker’s; she ordered a new dress some time ago, and wants to pick it up before the Morrises’ dinner party. I told her she has plenty of dresses already, but she wasn’t listening.

To be very honest, I think she’s trying to impress you, which is something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Has your interest ever turned that direction? She would not thank me if she found out I brought it up, but I had to ask; you’ve certainly never shown any interest, and if that is indeed the state of things, I might start gently hinting to her that she ought not to put all her eggs in that basket, as the saying goes.

Ashton

. . . . . .

 _November 8, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Ashton,

Thank you for promptly informing me of the change in plans. As for your sister, I mean no offense, but no, I have no interest there. She’s a lovely girl, but to tell the truth, my interest lies elsewhere. Thank you for letting me know, so that I can be certain my behavior never raises any expectations.

Basilwether

. . . . . .

 _November 9, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dearest Enola,

I cannot tell you how many times I have reread your letter since it arrived. Your kind appreciation for both my political activities and my friendship are a balm for my soul. And I too want you to feel that you can say anything to me that you like. You know I never quite fit in at school, and adulthood has not entirely changed that; so many in Lords look at me askance because of my age and progressive leanings. So you are my dearest friend in all the world, and I hope I can be as good a friend to you as you are to me.

And don’t worry: Mycroft is _not_ a very reasonable chap. In fact, if I ever write or say the phrase “Mycroft is a reasonable chap,” assume that I have been kidnapped or am under duress, and that is a code to tell you that something is terribly wrong. Likewise, if you are ever under duress, use the phrase “Sherlock is the best detective in London” and I shall know to go fetch help from Scotland Yard.

Our neighbors the Morrises had a dinner party last night. I had thought it would be a somewhat casual affair; it often is, when we dine with the Morrises. What everyone failed to tell me was that the Archbishop of Canterbury was to be in attendance; apparently he is an old friend of the Morrises, and stopped by for a visit while traveling north on ecclesiastical business. I felt vastly underprepared and underdressed. Miss Ashton had actually obtained a new dress for the occasion, and she teased me most unmercifully for being somewhat casually attired. She said I need someone to look after my social calendar for me, to which I responded that I could simply avoid having social engagements and it would never become a problem.

I cannot believe you convinced my mother to consider a trip to the Continent. She has not been as far south as the seashore since before she married my father. If you can truly get her to agree to it, I will happily come and act as porter for the both of you. But I hope the position pays well; I’m a very busy and important person, you know, so I shall need to be appropriately compensated for my time.

Most affectionately,

Tewky

. . . . . .

 _November 12, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Tewky,

You say I can say anything to you that I like? Then let me, as your friend, say something to you that a young lady likely ought not say to a young man: what is going on with you and Miss Ashton? You mention her in nearly every letter you write me, praising her piano playing and her skill with portraiture and mentioning what she wears and the flirtatious things she says to you. Ought I to congratulate you? Will we be hearing wedding bells in the future?

Enola 

. . . . . .

 _November 14, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Dearest Enola,

Absolutely not! I was quite baffled when I first read your letter, but after thinking over our correspondence these last few months, I can see how you could have reached that conclusion. I mentioned her getting a new dress for the Morrises’ dinner to poke fun at myself for being underdressed. I mentioned what she said about needing someone to manage my social calendar because I thought you would find it as ridiculous as I did. I kept bringing up her accomplishments because it seemed to amuse you to compare your list of accomplishments against that of a finishing school graduate.

But I assure you, I have no interest in the young lady. She is lovely and accomplished and utterly indistinguishable from most of the other young ladies of my acquaintance. She does not amuse or interest or challenge me; there is nothing of note about her. If I were to marry, I would want someone remarkable: someone clever and compassionate and brave and strong and fearless. I could settle for no less.

Yours truly,

Tewky

. . . . . .

 _November 16, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Tewky,

And someone suited to the title, of course. You’re a marquess; you can’t marry just anyone. You need someone who will look good on your arm and charm your political opponents at dinner parties and plan the perfect summer picnic for all your neighbors in Bedfordshire.

So: someone remarkable, but also someone of the correct background, the correct upbringing, the correct training.

Enola

. . . . . .

 _November 18, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

My dearest Enola,

I think you set too much store by what Society thinks in this case. And since I know you don’t care about Society at all, I can only imagine you are being so careful for my sake: that you are trying to advise me to approach my future and my marriage in a way that poses no threat to my social standing as the Marquess of Basilwether.

And I can see why: if I lose the confidence of my fellow nobles, I could have less influence in the House of Lords. But if I did make an eccentric marriage, I would hardly be the first member of Parliament to do so. Besides, saying the right things to the right people can be learned; planning a dinner party can be learned. I don’t want to marry a woman who can say and do all the right things, but who has nothing in sympathy with me; I had far rather marry a woman I can truly love, and ask her if she minds learning how to plan a dinner party. I want a wife I deeply care for and respect, an equal, with whom there is a true meeting of the minds.

But I suppose I am asking too much, in hoping that I should find such a woman who is willing to marry me. So perhaps I shall simply remain unmarried for the rest of my life.

Yours always,

Tewky

. . . . . .

 _November 20, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

To the most exasperating, most confusing Marquess of Bothersomeshire,

You are driving me mad. I have absolutely no idea what I am meant to make of you lately. I have worn your last few letters thin, reading and re-reading them, looking for clues as to your true feelings, trying to understand your meaning.

You say you can only marry a woman who is clever and fearless and whom you respect, and I feel certain you are speaking of me. But then you say that you’ll never find such a woman, and I feel certain I must have been wrong. In your last letter, you addressed me as “My dearest” and signed it with “Yours always,” and I have wandered in mental circles for hours, wondering what you mean by it.

And what did you mean when you called the MacDonald case “memorable”? Is that a positive or a negative sort of memorable? Are you remembering that kiss we shared? Because I have thought of little else ever since it occurred. The truth is, that kiss is the reason I turned down your invitation to Basilwether House; I needed time away from you to work through my feelings for you. For this is what I’ve realized in the last few months: I _do_ have feelings for you. I care for you—I think I may be in love with you—and I think I have felt this way for a long time, but I never could admit it, even to myself, because I was so certain that I was unsuitable for you in particular and for marriage in general. But since that kiss I have been unable to ignore those feelings any longer; that is why I have written to you so regularly of late. For the last month, at the prompting of a near stranger, I have been trying to be more open with my feelings when I write to you, and sometimes I think you are responding positively but sometimes I think you want us only to remain friends forever.

I know I am in no way suited to be the Marchioness of Basilwether. But I also know that I want nothing in this world more than for you to rush back to London and kiss me again.

—

It is now four hours later. I wrote those words in a fit of frustration and confusion, then promptly went to the fire to throw them in. But somehow I couldn’t.

So I tried to distract myself with a book, and when I was calmer, I went again to the fire to throw this letter into it. And still I couldn’t.

It has been four hours and I have tried to burn this letter at least a dozen times, and each time I could not. This letter is the first time I have been honest about what is going through my mind and heart in a long time, and I cannot bring myself to destroy it.

You know I love a mystery, but a mystery needs to have an eventual conclusion, or it stops being interesting and starts driving a person mad. And this is one mystery I cannot solve on my own—without asking for your insight on the subject. This wondering has taken up at least half of my thoughts in nearly every waking moment of late. It is becoming exhausting.

So I am going to send you this letter. I am astonished at my own audacity, but more than that, I am desperate for an answer, and terribly tired of wondering. “Ipsa scientia potentia est,” wrote Sir Francis Bacon: knowledge itself is power. I would rather know, even if the answer is not what I want to hear.

Yours, with all my heart,

Enola

. . . . . .

 _November 22, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Mother,

I must to London without delay. I will write to you soon.

William

. . . . . .

 _November 23, 1889_ _  
_ _Baker Street, London_

Dearest Mother,

Accept my apologies again for leaving you with no explanation; I hope you and Uncle were not too offended. I had received a letter from Baker Street that absolutely required my responding in person as soon as possible.

And now that I have responded to that letter, I must trouble you for congratulations: Enola and I are to be married.

Am I forgiven now for leaving Basilwether House so hastily? That was the matter that absolutely had to be settled in person, and now she has made me the happiest man in England by accepting my proposal. I know I needn’t ask whether you approve, given your letter to me on this subject not very long ago, but Enola is anxious to know what you think; she cannot quite believe that you will approve of my marrying her, no matter how many times I reassure her. If you could write to her, I think she would very much appreciate it.

The reactions of her own family have been varied. Mycroft is pleased, the way one is pleased when one has a prize pig one shall be able to get a lot of money for at the market. Her mother thinks marriage a poor use of Enola’s mind and energy, and has offered rather lackluster good wishes. Sherlock has no use for the institution of marriage, but at least he has heartily told her that he wants her to do whatever will bring her joy.

Fortunately, none of this has put a damper on her determination to marry me. What do you think of a Christmas wedding at Basilwether’s chapel? For Enola is as fond of the estate as I am. I know that it is a shockingly short engagement, but we have known each other for so long, and I am certainly financially ready to marry now. Enola says—and I agree—that she sees no reason for us to be forced to live apart once I return to London for the opening of Parliament in February. And if we must marry in the winter, surely Christmas is nicer than January.

Enola says to tell you that she doesn’t mean to set you an impossible task or take away your joy in planning such an event by cutting our engagement short—we both know how much you enjoy this sort of thing—and to please tell us if you think we should delay. However, _I_ say that I don’t want to have to wait a moment longer than I must to marry her, and am willing to pay whatever is necessary to have a wedding ready as soon as possible.

Enola is with me now, as you might have guessed; we are sitting together in the parlor at Baker Street, each working on our own correspondence. Mrs. Hudson is here too; now that we are engaged, she has suddenly grown very concerned with social niceties, and insists we cannot be unchaperoned. But she has no problem with me holding Enola’s hand, and is willing to turn a blind eye to an occasional kiss.

I plan to send this letter to Basilwether House with one of the footmen from the London house just as soon as I have finished it, in order to get a response as quickly as possible. We want to know when we may begin our life together.

Your deliriously happy son,

William

. . . . . .

 _November 23, 1889_ _  
_ _Basilwether House, Bedfordshire_

Whimbrel,

I am leaving for London on the six o’clock train; if you care to join me, I suggest you hurry home from your visit with the vicar and pack quickly. I must get to Baker Street as soon as possible to embrace my future daughter-in-law and begin planning for a Christmas wedding.

Caroline

. . . . . .

fin


End file.
